Confronting St. Joseph In My Yard
Hurricane lilies are known to mark abandoned
homesites. Mine burst into bloom today.
This sudden storm of crimson is so random,
a pool of blood where there should be decay.
I had no nurture left to give to gardens
or to myself. You left my landscape dry,
my heart infertile, my bones bereft of carbon,
a blossom unattended, bound to die.
When you lived here with me, you never gave
a thought to the fragility of lilies.
Now a rush of crimson leaps out from a grave,
the sky is dark, the nights are growing chilly.
The blood-red blooms foretell the violent weather,
while ice still forms from when we were together.
Editor’s Note: The imagery in this sonnet weaves flowers into bad weather—an unusually appropriate metaphor for a failed relationship.
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